Sono Felice Che Sei Qui
by Nakaren
Summary: "Desmond inhaled sharply, gasping for air as he was forcefully desynchronized from the Animus 2.0." Weird little drabble that happened after not sleeping forever. Lightly implied one-sided Shaun/Des in the right light. Oneshot!


Desmond inhaled sharply, gasping for air as he was forcefully desynchronized from the Animus 2.0. The Sanctuary seemed to be spinning around him, and he was vaguely aware of Lucy's disembodied voice plainly stating that "That's enough for the day. We should all get some rest, especially you, Desmond," as he curled in on himself in the red lounge chair. Freshly calloused hands cupped his face as he brought his head down between his knees, breathing slowly and shakily between his fingers. '_Desmond._' The name echoed in his mind. '_I'm Desmond_.'

He desperately clung to what he could still observe with his head in his hands. The hum of the artificial lighting and computers. Lucy's footsteps moving steadily away from him. Rebecca mumbling to her 'Baby.' Shaun briefly trying to argue with Lucy that Desmond could handle a little while longer before she shut him down completely, with her tone more than her words.

'_Desmond_,' he repeated to himself. '_I'm Desmond_.'

How long had it been since he had heard his companion's - _'h__is friend's?_' - voices? Hours? Days? Years? He let his hands slide down his face as he looked up at them, wincing a little as he did. Were the lights always this bright? Rebecca was looking at him. Desmond straightened up self-consciously, forcing a soft smile at her. She returned it, her shoulders slumped, relieved. The cold sweat that had seemed to be encasing him was slowly coming to an end, evaporating and leaving nothing but the feeling of grime and the stale air on his skin. He needed a shower. He needed abath. A washcloth. Anything.

Desmond swung his legs over the side of his mock-throne, the grain of the faux velvet disagreeing with the denim of his jeans, and he stood slowly, gripping the headrest for support. His balance wavered.

"Are you alright, Desmond?" Lucy's mouth tugged into a small frown, worry weighing down her brow.

"Si, sto bene," he said, his voice cracking and thick with Ezio's accent. Rebecca and Lucy exchanged nervous glances. Shaun's eyebrows furrowed more than usual. Desmond scowled a little at them. "Che cosa?"

"Lets try that again," the Brit scoffed, "But in English, mate."

_Shit_. A hand went over his eyes again, trying to remember the right words for what he meant. "I said, I'm fine," Desmond sighed, his fingers raked up through his hair before he let his arm drop limply to his side. "I just… Need a minute."

Lucy was staring at him again. That panic in her eyes made him feel like a child climbing too high in a tree. "Take your time. You can take a day off tomorrow, if you want." To Desmond's surprise, no one argued.

"No," he said firmly, sauntering over to a folding chair, and his tone lightened slightly, "We have work to do, and a uncertain amount of time to do it in, right?" The brunette flashed her a half-cocked smile as he sat down, and she allowed herself to smile back.

"…Right." Lucy turned away again, and Rebecca stood to follow her, heading towards what Desmond imagined would be a peaceful night of sleep. He propped his elbows on his knees,shutting his eyes against the florescent lights and gently rubbing his temples.

'_Desmond_.' It was getting a little clearer in his head.

For now.

He heard Shaun's footsteps, glass and ceramic clinking together. He involuntarily twitched towards him as he heard his colleague come closer, his eyes snapping open as he turned to look at him. Shaun stood awkwardly in front of him, holding a mug at the end of his outstretched arm. Desmond looked puzzled.

"Here. It's not the best, but given what we've got to work with here, it'll have to do."

"…What is it?"

"Poison. What do you think? It's tea, Desmond."

Desmond hesitantly took the cup in his hands. The ceramic was warm, and as he peaked in the cup he could see that it still needed a little time to steep. "Uh," he mumbled, then cleared his throat, "Thanks."

Shaun rolled his eyes, "Like I said, in case you haven't noticed, we don't have a lot to work with around here. You're welcome, though I don't think I've ever received such insincere thanks in my life." He turned from him – '_like everyone else,'_– and started to walk away.

"What kind?"

The other man stopped and looked back at him. "What?"

"What kind of tea?" Desmond asked woefully into his mug.

Shaun's scowl faded a little. "Nothing special. Some cheap breakfast tea we managed to pick up along the way."

Desmond nodded absently, desperately trying to ignore Ezio's silhouette wandering thoughtfully behind what he tentatively considered to be his friend.

Shaun shifted his weight awkwardly. Desmond's eyes locked on the slowly darkening contents of the cup in his hands. The silence between them stretched on, the only relief in it the soft whirring of machines and lights and the occasional dripping from the ceiling into ancient and shallow pools beneath the small cracks. This bitter, sarcastic man in front of him, who normally seemed so callous, so judgmental and distant, gave him this one, small offering. A precious luxury, swirling in a warm cup in dark times. Desmond raised it to his mouth and sipped. It was too hot and too bitter. It was comforting. Shaun turned his back to him again.

Desmond grew anxious for a link to his own time.

"Shaun?"

The man hummed in inquiry, looking over his shoulder with his cup to his lips.  
>One of the first genuine smile in days crept on to Desmond's face.<p>

"I'm glad you're here."

The corner of Shaun's mouth turned up as he shook his head a little, pulling up one of the rickety chairs.

"So," he began conversationally, his voice low and his eyes searching the American's, "How've you been, mate?"


End file.
